


Would Have, For You

by nightrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-29
Updated: 2009-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing Dean wouldn’t do to keep his brother safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would Have, For You

**Author's Note:**

> I added the second part down at the bottom.

_**Would've, For You**_  
 **Title:** Would Have, For You  
 **Author:** nightrose_spn  
 **Pairings:** non-con Sam/John and Dean/John  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 2143  
 **Summary:** There is nothing Dean wouldn’t do to keep his brother safe.  
 **Author's Note:** I added the second part down at the bottom.

  


Dean can't know.  
Oh, God, Dean can't ever know.  
That’s all he’s thinking. He has to make sure that Dean never finds out, no matter what it costs him along the way.  
His hands are shaking as he packs up his bag. Sam carefully puts his gun, his clothes, those meager pieces that make up his whole life, into it.  
Then his eyes fly open. Dad- John, now, he gave up any right to call himself a father a long time ago- is standing at the door. Sam closes his eyes.  
"I'm leaving," he says quietly. "College."  
Dad's (John, John, John, it's so much better if he's just John) face twists up. "No, you fucking aren't," he responds, a chill in his voice that's so much worse than fury. That coldness is what lets him forget important things, like that Sam is his son, lets him do things that he never, ever should.  
"I'm eighteen. I can do whatever I want." Sam's voice sounds like a child's and they both know it.  
"You're still my son." John smiles, cruel and cold, and whispers, "On the bed, Sam. On your knees."  
Sam swallows. He knows better than to try to disobey. He'll just get himself hurt, and then he'll have marks to explain to his brother. Slowly, he drops the bag, walks to the bed, and goes to his knees. It’s the last time, he promises himself that. He’ll never let his father—John—never let John touch him again.  
"Strip," John adds.  
Sam shivers. All the times John's hurt him, all the things he's made him do... he's never once had him do that. Sam touches John, and it's bad and wrong and he hates it, it twists him up inside, but not this. Never this. With a pit in his stomach, he knows what's coming.  
Sam's father is going to rape him while he kneels on this cheap motel bed, his brother off fucking some cheap bar slut, his college bag packed on the floor. There’s nothing he can do about it.  
Sam's hands shake as he removes his own clothes and throw them so they cover the bag. He is naked. Exposed. And he's about to be hurt.  
"Good boy," John says in his ear, all low and dirty like he's talking to a lover, not his son. Sam looks down at his hands so he doesn't have to watch John take off his own clothes, watch him unfasten the belt (Sam still remembers the way it felt on his back the first time he tried to say "No.")  
Then there's a finger inside him, and it hurts, it hurts more than anything else. It doesn't make sense. He's had some pretty serious physical injuries, he should be able to take a finger up his ass. Before this thought ends, there's another, and they're spreading him too wide, and it hurts.  
He gasps, tries to push away, but his father growls and brings a hand up to choke him. Sam strangles, slowly, as John abandons any pretense of prep and shoves into him. For a moment, he wishes Dean would walk in, would find them, would save him, but then he remembers. Dean can't ever know.  
At least it's over quickly. Two or three rough ruts and John lets go, leaving burning traces inside Sam, all ripped up and sore. He stands, gets dressed, leaves Sam crying into the pillow.  
The next day, when Sam leaves, they have their obligatory screaming match for Dean's benefit. Sam goes, quickly. Runs away, still so hurt inside, his ass and his heart. Bruised and still bleeding a little, traces of red in his underwear when he stops at the train station bathroom and cries with his forehead against the wall.  
He'll never tell a soul, but he won't let it happen again either.  
John? Well, John's just glad he got what he wanted once before the kid ran away.  
And he's still got another son, besides.

Dean is crying when it happens. He never mentions that to Sammy, that he’d been curled up on the bed clutching an old shirt of Sam’s, pressing it to his nose, and sobbing desperately when John walked in the room drunk.  
He tries very hard not to think of the man as his father anymore. Not ever again, because he gave that up, forfeited any place in their lives, the first time he touched either of them.  
Dean was seven years old the first time he saw the man he still called “Daddy” then doing—it. It took him a few seconds to register exactly what he’d seen. That night, he’d gotten a gun and pointed it at his father.  
“Don’t do it again,” he’d said, clear in his wavering child’s voice. “Ever. If you have to… then do it to me. Never to Sammy, never again.”  
John had smiled. “I’m proud of you, Dean.” After all, Dean thinks with a vicious stab of hurt, what else has he ever been good for except taking care of Sam?  
He tried not to leave his brother alone with John after that. For years, he doesn’t. But with the amount of times that his father hurts _him_ , he assumes the… fixation, or whatever it was, with Sam has faded. After all, though it had been clear enough to even a seven-year-old that something was wrong (Sammy, pinned naked under a fully-clothed father, confused tears running down his round child’s face) John had never actually done anything to Sam.  
With everything Dean’s done to protect Sam, he knows Sammy’s safe. It just wouldn’t be fair otherwise. He’s sure he’s done enough. He can’t have given up anymore, not when he was eight years old and crushed underneath the body of a grown man. So when he goes out, he trusts that Sam is safe.  
That’s not saying that he’s not careful. He only ever does it right after John has… forced him. With his lust slated, he can’t hurt Sammy. Dean allows himself to leave, to go chase girls, drown the pain of hot, rough hands on his skin.  
“Dean,” John slurs.  
Dean just buries his face deeper into the shirt. “Sammy,” he whispers, unheard by any ears but his own.  
Dean is inhaling his brother’s smell while his father rapes him. Sammy’s been gone for two days, and that hurts more than the fingers shoving, thick and dry, inside him, even than the giant length of John splitting him open.  
He bleeds, then, crying harder into Sam’s shirt as he clings to the only good thing he’s had in his life.  
If Sammy knew what was happening, would he care enough to stay? Would he feel guilty enough to give Dean the chance to love him for a little longer?  
He’d probably just be disgusted.  
Dean will never let him find out.

It’s a week later when he leaves. When he can walk again, after the rough violation of his body. Dean heads straight for the only happiness he can imagine—his brother.  
John catches him at the door. Ties him to the bed and beats him until he’s screaming, until he starts to believe that the belt is a whip or something, because no innocent item of clothing could cause this much pain.  
When John is done with him, he knows. For sixteen years, he’s been bearing this burden for his brother. For love of Sam.  
Sam, who left. Who didn’t care enough for Dean’s sacrifice, for _Dean_ , to stay.  
Sure, Sammy never knew. But that doesn’t mean it was okay for him to abandon his family, even if their father doesn’t count anymore. After this, he’s been erased from the ledger of people Dean loves. Permanently.  
That leaves the list at one entry, excluding his half-remembered mother.  
Sammy.  
Where else can he go, frightened and alone as he is? Who else does he even know, that he could flee to?  
He considers waiting until he can walk, but he knows John will be expecting his escape then. He picks the knots with his teeth. Takes his favorite gun and a hundred bucks and crawls to the Impala. The first day, he can only drive a few hours before pain overwhelms him. Head spinning, he drives off-road and sleeps until his aching body will let him continue.  
It takes him three days to get to Stanford. Sam answers the door. “Oh, God. What happened? Was it a hunt?” With the mindless ease of someone who’s been doing this since near-literal infancy, Sam helps him inside.  
“No,” and this is the part he didn’t take into account. He has to tell now, explain to Sam everything he’s done. He hopes he can convince Sam it was all for one sacred purpose—keeping him safe.  
Yet Sam doesn’t push. “C’mere. Sit down.” Sam carefully guides him to a pretty off-white couch. “I’ll clean you up.” Sam dabs alcohol across the nail scratches on his face and neck. “Anywhere else?”  
“My back.” Dean takes off his own shirt. He isn’t sure he’s ready for anyone else to be stripping him, regardless of the circumstances. Dean hasn’t seen the wounds there, but he assumes it’s pretty bad from the desperate sound Sam can’t restrain.  
“He… he _whipped_ you.”  
He doesn’t ask how Sam knows who it was. “With his belt.”  
“Fuck.” Sam’s fingers are very gentle over the worst of it. “These must be from the buckle.” He cleans those, too.  
“How did you know it was him?”  
Sam turns away. When Dean hears him draw in a breath—a sob—he knows. He doesn’t want to, would do anything if he could just be wrong, but he knows he isn’t.  
“He did it to you, too,” he whispers, horrified. “Oh, God. He did it to you, too.”  
“That’s why I left. I’d been hiding it for so long, but I knew I couldn’t hide this. He… took the last step, and I couldn’t let you find out, Dean.”  
Perversely, he’s glad. At least that final horror was spared Sam for a little while. Dean succeeded in one thing—Sam had a childhood, a period of happiness, and more importantly, innocence. That’s all Dean wanted for him in the first place. Even if Sam was keeping this same desperate secret, at least there was some part of him left untouched.  
“You should have told me.”  
“Why? So you could be disgusted and leave?”  
Dean’s heart breaks at the pain in his brother’s eyes. How could Sammy ever think that? “I never would have.”  
“He’s your hero, Dean.”  
The truth comes out easily enough, when it’s to comfort Sam. “When I was seven years old, I caught him… doing things to you. You were just a baby, you couldn’t possibly have understood it, but you were crying so hard. You still had that little lisp and you were asking him what he was doing, except you couldn’t pronounce it right… I made him stop. Told him that I understood if he needed to do this, but he couldn’t hurt you. If he had to, it had to be me.” He takes a deep, careful breath. “He said he was proud of me. First and last time he ever did. And believe me, he took me up on my offer.”  
“No.” Sam’s voice is devastated. “I thought…”  
“So did I. If I just tried hard enough, just gave enough, you’d be safe, right?”  
“If I let him, he wouldn’t hurt you.”  
“So you did. And so did I. And he was doing it to both of us, all that time.”  
They’re crying, now, Sam blinking away the tears as he eases cream onto Dean’s wounds. Grieving for a sacrifice made in vain. There’s nothing they wouldn’t have done for each other, but it wasn’t enough. “Sammy, I’m so sorry.”  
“What? Why?”  
“I’m your big brother. I was supposed to protect you.”  
“You gave yourself to save me. There’s nothing more you could do.” Sam bites his lip, and says something he only half-believes. “It’s not our fault.”  
“You’re right. It’s his.”  
Sam looks down at his brother, eyes wide, the same way he always has, just like he did that day sixteen years ago when he was three and scared and crying. “What do we do now?”  
“We stay here. You should go to school. I can get a job once my back heals up. We’ll stick together.”  
“You and me?”  
“Forever, Sammy.” Dean reaches up, grabs his brother’s hand, and smiles.  
This time, he won’t fail.  
He’ll keep Sam safe. No matter what.

  
Their first time goes like this.  
Sammy wakes up screaming from a terrible nightmare, the kind that they both know only too well. The horror of them lasts beyond a little bit of nighttime terror, because when they wedge their eyes open, it’s still there.  
The physical effects are more than shaking and cold sweats. No, there’s the one thing they don’t speak of, the one thing they hate more than anything else.  
Because Sammy wakes up screaming. He wakes up shaking. He wakes up crying. But he also wakes up hard.  
And he can’t do anything about it. Every time he reaches towards his erection, he starts to cry again.  
Dean is right next to them, the only way that either of them can sleep. He has been holding on to Sammy tightly all through out the whole night. When their eyes meet, Dean knows what his brother needs. And he won’t stop from giving it to him. “Come here.”  
Sam snuggles into Dean’s arms, obedient to the quiet, gentle command. Dean wraps one arm around Sam’s chest, reaches the other down to his pelvis. He wraps his hand around Sam’s dick, almost too gentle to bring him off as he strokes up slowly, once, twice, three times.  
That’s all it takes and he’s coming, with tears of bright shame.  
“Shh, it’s okay, I gotcha, I gotcha. You’re safe, I love you, I’ve got you, it’s okay, Sammy, you’re safe, it’s all okay. I promise.”  
Sam clutches helplessly at his brother’s bicep, clinging to Dean’s arm like it’s his only link to the world.  
“I’ll take care of you, I swear,” Dean whispers gently, his voice no quieter than a whisper, his words tangible in his brother’s ear.  
“I’m so scared,” he admits, and Dean smiles sadly at him.  
“I know, baby boy. Me too. I’m… I’m scared too. But I’ll make it better.” Dean kisses him. “We’ll take good care of each other. That’s how it works, remember?”  
“I know.” He snuggles into Dean’s arms. “Thank you for… for…” He sighs.  
“Come on, sweetheart. You should say it.”  
Dean does this, sometimes. Thinking he can make Sam better, fix Sam somehow by making him fix the unfixable. Put all the broken pieces together again. “For helping me…”  
Dean sighs and drops it. “It’s not a problem, Sammy. I’d do anything for you.”  
“You didn’t have to,” Sam whispers, dropping his eyes.  
Lord, every time Sam gets like this all Dean can feel is the heavy weight of failure, the sickening knowledge that he couldn’t save his brother from the deep terror he knows all too well. “I know, Sammy. I know. I don’t do anything I do for you because I feel like I have to. Okay? I do it because I love you.”  
“I… I know.”  
“If you don’t want me to touch you like that, Sammy, if that isn’t okay… you let me know. Okay? Stop me if I scare you, if I hurt you. I won’t force you. I promise.”  
Sam closes his eyes, listening to the quiet chorus of words. They are all the comfort he needs, especially delivered in the sweet, low tones of his brother’s voice. “No. No, you didn’t…” He hesitates. “I… Dean. I have to tell you something. No more secrets, right? We promised.”  
“Right.”  
“But you have to…” it takes another breath before he can say it. “You have to promise not to leave, okay? You can be mad but you have to promise not to leave.”  
He always sounds so young when he’s like this, afraid and vulnerable. It takes Dean right back to when Sam was a child… always that four year old child, looking up with big scared eyes. Not understanding, but still afraid… and trusting. Trusting Dean to make it better. “It can’t be as bad as you think it is, Sammy.” He touches his brother’s face. “Remember last time?” Dean tries not to, but it’s not good to repress this. “You kept that from me… and it just got us both hurt. I want to know. And I won’t leave you. No matter what.”  
“Dean, I… I really liked that. What just happened. And… and I’ve been thinking about you for a while. Like that. I don’t know if it’s because of what happened, or if it’s because there’s no one else I can trust even a little bit. But I keep… I keep wanting you. And I’m sorry, I am, I know it isn’t right, I won’t… I won’t…”  
“Sammy,” Dean whispers, cutting off his guilty tirade.  
“Dean?”  
“Sammy, I don’t… I don’t know if it’s quite the same thing. But there’s no one who matters but you. Do you understand that? I love you. I love you more than anything else.” He grabs his brother close, holding him tight. “I haven’t wanted anyone in… ever, really. I used to try, with women. You know that.”  
Sam doesn’t like to think of that, of anyone else touching Dean. Not just out of jealousy. Because hands on his brother’s skin leads to one place, one memory alone. It’s an imagined one, but it’s more than sufficiently horrific.  
It’s John hurting him.  
The two of them lie together on the bed, intertwined completely.  
“It never worked. I couldn’t keep trying, I didn’t know why I couldn’t care about them. I was too afraid. I was too busy caring about you. I don’t know which but I…” Dean silences himself. “I love you. There are no boundaries to the things I will do for you. And I will do anything. Anything you want.”  
“No,” Sammy says quietly. “No, not like that. I know… I know I… I know how much I want you. And I know I can live with that, even sharing every second with you, even touching constantly the way we do. You are… you are everything you want, and I don’t… I don’t want anything more than to be with you in every way. I won’t lie. But… I love you, Dean. I won’t take advantage of you just because you love me, because you’d do anything for me. I wouldn’t hurt you any more than you would hurt me, and I know… I know what this will do to you, if you do this for me, like it’s some kind of fucking favor. Like you’re obliged…”  
It’s the first time in a long time that Dean has seen Sam get even the slightest bit angry. It’s a good thing, he knows that, but it’s still a little bit frightening. His eyes all bright with righteous fury, his jaw set with the tension of his fear.  
“It isn’t like that,” Dean promises. “Not even a little. It’s all about you, Sammy. Even if it’s something I do for you, it isn’t… it isn’t wrong. You aren’t making me…” He takes a deep breath. “I love you. I love you and I want to…” He doesn’t know any other way to say this. “I want to make new memories, Sammy. Ones that aren’t… terrifying. Dark and horrible. Ones that exist between us because we love each other. That are full of love and not… not anything else.”  
Sammy nods, convinced. It doesn’t take much of Dean’s persuading to get him to believe anything. “So… you and me?”  
“Yeah. You and me, always.” Dean turns his head to the side and presses a gentle kiss to Sam’s cheek.  
“I… Dean… you…”  
“Shh. We’ll take it really slow, okay? Neither of us is ready for that.”  
Sam nods, sleepy. Dean picks up on it, of course.  
“You go back to bed, sweetheart. You need your rest.”  
“I love you,” he mutters. It comes out in a garbled mush. Dean chuckles and pulls his brother back into his arms.  
“I love you too. C’mon. You go to sleep.”  
With slow, deep breaths, Sam lets go. This time, his sleep is dreamless and peaceful, and he wakes up with Dean smiling down on him.

About a month later, John finds them. He’s falling down drunk, a movie cliché with the bottle of whisky in his hand. Dean can barely understand his indistinct threats, his speech is so slurred.  
“Hunt, need yer help, can’t…”  
Dean keeps his voice very studiously calm. “Get off my property.”  
John stumbles forward, throws his arms around Dean in a clumsy hug. Dean will never admit the part of him that is grateful for the show of affection. “Missed you, boy.”  
The kiss is rough and hard. Dean chokes back bile. “No,” he whispers, immobile in the face of his fear. He can’t fight back, not after a lifetime of being trained not to do anything under these horrific touches.  
“Don’t joke with me, son. You don’t mean it.” His hands are wandering over the surface of Dean’s body and it makes him sick. “Didn’t we have a deal?”  
And that was his fatal mistake. “You cheated.” Dean, with a sudden burst of anger, grabs John by the shoulders. He slams him into the wall bodily, pressing their faces within an inch of each other, and spits, “You hurt Sam. And I will never forgive you for that. I would’ve lived with you doing it to me but you promised you wouldn’t touch Sammy and you lied.”  
“I…”  
“No. No more talking about this shit. I’m going to kill you,” Dean explains. “And then he will never have to be afraid of you again. We can both start over.”  
“Sounds like you’re tryin’ to convince yourself there, boy.”  
“Maybe I am. You know something? So what if I am? It’ll do more good than harm, that I know.” He smiles. It’s sinister, terrifying. “Except for you. You… well, you’re gonna be dead at the end of the day.”  
“I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again.”  
“Funny how I don’t believe that. I wonder why. Maybe it’s because last time I trusted you, you raped my brother.”  
“I’m your father…”  
“You used to be. That ended the first time you laid a hand on me, or on my baby brother, like that.”  
And then there are no more words. No excuse the man can make for what he’s done, because he knows just how wrong it is.  
“You’ll never hurt him again,” Dean whispers, reaching for the knife he carries for just this reason. John goes for his gun but he knows he’ll lose. He doesn’t care enough about his life, never has, for it to be worth fighting for.  
Dean doesn’t draw it out. Maybe he should, but he doesn’t have that mercilessness in him. He has never been one for hurting people. He slits John’s throat efficiently and hauls the body out to the dumpster in the back.  
He knows the cops won’t look that hard for the killer. Not when he has neither a name nor an identity on record. No one will care enough to try it, especially not when both of them have taken out protective orders against them. It’s in some federal database that this man raped both of his children, no one will go looking for his murderer.  
Even if they could identify him after Dean salts and burns the dumpster.  
Might as well be thorough.  
Sammy gets home from his class as Dean is washing the blood from his hands. “You killed him,” Sam says, knowing instinctively what has passed.”  
“I had to,” Dean replies. “He was…”  
“He came after us.” Sammy breaks down into terrified tears, and Dean throws wet arms around him, holding him close until the sobs subside. “He was going to hurt you.”  
“And now he can’t. Not ever again. He’s dead, he’s dead and gone, you’re safe, we both are.” It takes a long time for him to calm his brother down. Finally, Sammy looks up with that same wide-eyed innocent expression that breaks his heart every time.  
“Thank you,” he says, and Dean laughs.  
Sam makes them dinner and they eat it in a familiar companionable silence. The relief is tangible. Their greatest fear is gone, and all they have to do now is live in the aftermath.  
The thought is less intimidating now that they are together. Dean rests his hand on Sam’s leg gently as they eat.  
That night, they make love in their own way. It’s not full on penetrative sex. They haven’t worked up that far yet. But they find comfort in it, the simple touch of hands on skin, of kisses placed in the most innocent spots. Only the two of them touching in the wake of horror, finding a real world of their own to build a happy ending for the two of them.  
“I love you,” Dean says. “There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. And I’m here. I’m here with you. I love you.”  
“Love… love you too…” Sam stutters, the fear gone now. There’s only the two of them. Nothing to be frightened of. There is only love. Only their own sweet second chance.  
Dean’s the one who has nightmares that night, and Sam comforts him just as expertly. This is how it goes.  
It’s not easy, it’s not perfect, but it is them. Together and happy, together and safe.  
What more could they ask for?


End file.
